


Bang Bang (The Sound of Doors Opening and Closing)

by clockworkcorvids



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dysfunctional Family, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Irony, M/M, Pre-Relationship, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Classic Literature, References to Poetry, Screenplay/Script Format, Theater Format, Theatre Format, chase is the only one with any braincells, discussion of suicide, jonny bolduc, neil is DONE, play, specifically, sweet sweet irony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/clockworkcorvids
Summary: In which two (2) antique pistols cause a number of problems which (surprisingly) do not include murder, and (in a convoluted manner) one (1) thing which is the opposite of a problem.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for my ap lit final. college board can go suck it, especially after the utter bullshit they pulled with the online exams this year (they're getting sued, as they should be), but my teacher is super cool and also helped me do an independent study on fanfiction so i thoroughly enjoyed this class. 
> 
> chapter 2 is a supplementary bit i wrote explaining the elements, themes, etc. in this piece. 
> 
> the piece of poetry that chase refers to is [nothing lost by jonny bolduc](https://jovialtorchlight.tumblr.com/post/170502099183/jadelanthony-nothing-lost-text-by)

## ACT I

SCENE I 

  
  


_A massive, well-kept circular ballroom, old in style, but with a computerized thermostat by a window that indicates significant technological advancement. It is empty, save for a long, undecorated wooden table, around which is a set of matching chairs. The furniture fits the theme of the ballroom. Outside, snow is visible against a backdrop of green grass, and church bells can be heard ringing distantly, signalling that Sunday mass is happening - whether beginning or ending, it is unclear. On the walls, various oil paintings of unamused-looking (and quite possibly dead) rich people hang, and they all have the exact same nose. It’s like the painter made carbon copies of whichever nose came first and pasted them onto every single painting to signify that all the subjects are related. Stairs circle the room, with a closed door at the top, directly above another closed door at the bottom of the stairs that leads out into a mudroom and, after that, into the snow. A third door is across the room._

_A man - CHASE - is pacing. He wears smart black jeans, a collared bloodred shirt that is clearly not ironed, and a skinny black tie. It’s as if someone asked a wannabe rock star to attend a politician’s wedding - improbable, goth, and altogether out of place. After a few laps, he ascends the stairs and disappears through the door at the top._

_The door at the bottom of the stairs slams open a moment later. A man - CORNELIUS - enters, treading snow and water everywhere. He has the same nose as the paintings, and is wearing a grungy, clearly well-loved hoodie paired with rain-splattered slacks. He holds a leather briefcase in one hand._

CORNELIUS: It’s cold! It’s so damn cold! It’s May, for God’s sake, why is it snowing? _May!_ _[His accent is clipped and posh, although his words are casual.]_

_At the noise, Chase re-enters the ballroom._ _The door at the top of the stairs slams behind him._

CHASE: Neil! You’re late! _[A pause.]_ Is that my hoodie? _[His accent is similar to Neil’s, but less carefully measured.]_

NEIL: Astute observation as always! I didn’t expect _snow_ . It slowed me down. And _yes_ , it’s yours. I let myself into your apartment, you weren’t there, and it was the first thing I saw after I realized it had begun to snow.

_Chase begins to head down the stairs as Neil places his briefcase on the floor and peels off his drenched hoodie, revealing a fancy collared button-down beneath._

CHASE: _[Gingerly taking the hoodie from Neil]_ Well, let’s hope the snow slows down our clients as well. I won’t be having you signing over your inheritance looking like this. 

NEIL: It’s _your_ hoodie, not mine, and don’t talk to me about presentation when you’re wearing skinny jeans, Chase. But that’s beside the point. You may be the archivist _and_ groundskeeper of my - of _the_ \- estate, but I’m the one they know. _[He looks at the nearest portrait in disgust.]_ I’m the one they’ll listen to, even though I never wanted this place to begin with.

_Chase waves a hand dismissively as he begins to cross the room._

NEIL: I trust you’ve been keeping the place in one piece in the absence of any real upkeep? 

_Chase disappears out the third door, and reenters a moment later without the drenched hoodie. He puts a hand over his heart as he moves back towards Neil, and feigns distress._

CHASE: _[Teasing, with increasing melodrama, as he drapes himself over the banister]_ You wound me, Neil. Here I was thinking you appreciated all the hard work I do for your dead relatives’ haunted house, but I see now you’ve just been using and manipulating me the entire time. How will I ever go on with my life, knowing I am the only force keeping this beautiful, exquisite mansion from falling into irrevocable disrepair? O! How I mourn, knowing this brick and mortar would crumple if not for the tireless, futile work of my two hands!

NEIL: I am literally begging you to shut up.

CHASE: _[Straightening up, making a show of brushing nonexistent dust off his shirt]_ By all means, continue to beg. It’s far more entertainment than I usually get. This ballroom hasn’t seen a proper ball since I was in diapers. 

NEIL: With how childish you act, one would think that was yesterday.

_Frowning, Chase extends a hand as if asking for a dance._

CHASE: It can be right now, if you wish. 

NEIL: _[With a scoff, but smiling]_ Remind me later. After all, were you not just saying how little time we have before my - sorry, _our_ \- clients arrive?

_Chase withdraws his hand._

CHASE: I trust you remembered to bring all the appropriate documents?

NEIL: Yes, of course. 

_Neil picks up the briefcase, bringing it to the table and opening it up. Chase follows, taking a seat on the edge of the table. His legs dangle. Neil looks slightly distressed, but says nothing. The two flip through an array of documents in various stages of age, some fresh and crisp while others are yellowed and carefully contained within plastic sleeves. (Ad-lib dialogue here.)_

CHASE: And you’ve already gone over the assets again?

NEIL: Yes.

CHASE: Nothing more that you want to keep?

NEIL: Yes. Er, nothing more, that is. 

CHASE: Are you sure? I’ve been staring at the paintings, because, you know, I get plenty of opportunities to do that when I’m pacing and trying to think if I finished everything, I swear I have every damn brushstroke memorized by now. Anyways, I just… _[He pauses, thinking]_ I know it isn’t quite my place, but it feels as if you’re letting part of yourself go. 

NEIL: I’m letting part of my family go. There’s a difference. 

CHASE: Part of your heritage?

NEIL: Yes. It’s like plucking out a grey hair. 

CHASE: That’ll just make you go bald if you do it enough. If you’re stressed enough to have grey hairs at your age, they certainly won’t be growing back. 

NEIL: _[Sighing]_ That’s not what I meant, Chase. I meant that it’s something that has outgrown the space it came from. It - the paintings and the manor - they don’t fit with the rest of my life anymore.

CHASE: I see. I think the part that got me, you know, is the nose. It’s the same in all the paintings. 

NEIL: You know, you sound like Basil Hallward. Are you a painter now?

CHASE: No. My art is with words, Neil. I’m a poet. And I’d rather hope I don’t die in pursuit of my art. But it doesn’t take a painter to see the similarities - the nose in the paintings, it’s the same nose you have. All your relatives had it too, and I keep thinking, there’s no painting of _you_. 

NEIL: Oh, you spend a lot of time staring at my nose? Or my face in general? Thinking about me?

_Chase makes a point of looking anywhere_ but _Neil’s face._

CHASE: _[Muttering]_ You’re the one who said I sound like Basil Hallward. _[Louder]._ The nose must be a dominant trait. 

_He springs off the table with a sudden burst of energy and begins to pace._

NEIL: _[Checking the time on his cell phone, which is strangely out of place in the old, fancy room]_ We don’t have much time left.

CHASE: _[Still full of energy, ticking things off on his fingers as he continues to pace]_ We have all the documents, I mentioned the paintings to you, the clients will _not_ be seeing you in that hoodie, your _[looking Neil up and down]_ clothes are acceptably dry, I - _oh! [He stops pacing and points at Neil.]_ The pistols!

NEIL: _[Visibly distressed]_ What?

CHASE: The pistols, Neil! Old German revolvers, still nearly in mint condition. I haven’t tried to shoot them, God knows I’m not trained for that, but I imagine they’d still work if you oiled them up a bit. 

NEIL: I thought - those were my uncle’s - the pistols were - I thought they’d been moved to - my father said he took them.

_Chase begins to look distressed too._

CHASE: Well. Then he must have lied. I found them in the crawl space upstairs. 

NEIL: In the - 

CHASE: _[With conviction]_ In the crawl space. I was only checking to make sure there weren’t any, I dunno, dead rats in there, and I wound up poking around in the corners, pulling out spiderwebs, and I found this wooden case. Popped it open _[He makes a motion with his hands]_ and boom, two revolvers in there. I would have mentioned it to you earlier, but I was drowning in paperwork and it slipped my mind.

NEIL: Where are they? 

CHASE: The safe in the office, in my flat. I’m not idiotic enough to leave them here, especially given that they weren’t listed with the assets. 

_Neil continues to look very shaken, running his hands through his hair, bouncing his leg, etc._

NEIL: I - why would they be there? Leaving them out in the open makes sense, if he wanted to create confusion with the assets, or maybe putting them somewhere where they’d be easy to find, but why hide them where they wouldn’t be found? Why hide them at _all_?

CHASE: Your father?

NEIL: It has to be. He inherited them after my uncle passed. They’re worth...a great deal of money, in fact, but that’s not my biggest concern. He told me they were safe in his possession. At _his_ mansion. Of course, that was before he came back here to take a final look at the assets, but...

CHASE: It’s possible he lied to you. Very likely, actually.

NEIL: I can see that, but _why?_

CHASE: They’d be difficult to find by chance alone, or even if someone was actively looking for them. My guess is that your father wanted to lose them. 

NEIL: What do you mean?

CHASE: The pistols weren’t on the list of assets in the mansion. As far as you and anyone else knew, your father had them. He put them where they definitely wouldn’t be found until long after this place falls into someone else’s hands. If and when that does happen, it’s likely the new owners wouldn’t think the pistols had been planted, since they weren’t listed with the other assets. They’d probably slip through the cracks. 

_Neil takes a long pause to absorb this._

CHASE: _[With a sense of finality]_ He’s plucking out a grey hair. _[A pause.]_ ‘There is nothing of value in this place. I will offer no kind words to you. There will be no transaction. Nothing will be lost. Nothing will be gained.’ 

NEIL: What’s that?

CHASE: Jonny Bolduc. Internet poet. It’s about moving on - at least, to _me_ it is.

NEIL: Moving on. Hm. You’re right. 

CHASE: Am I?

NEIL: No, I mean, _yes_ , you are, but no, there’s something I haven’t told you. Those pistols - my uncle used them to - _[he begins to get choked up, hiding his face in his hands]_ \- he - the - 

CHASE: _[Gently]_ Do you need a glass of water?

NEIL: _[Audibly sniffling]_ No, no, I’ll be fine. 

CHASE: You don’t _sound_ fine. 

NEIL: I’m _not._ I will be. But - I need to say it. My uncle - the guns were an inheritance, like the estate. Passed down from generation to generation. They could be sold for...a lot. Enough to live on for a while. But my uncle - he was such a damn asshole, always seemed practically heartless, but I can’t help remembering…he used those pistols to kill himself, after all his stocks went south. 

CHASE: _[Mentally connecting the dots, because he’s not an idiot]_ The economic crash of 2008?

NEIL: There was - I don’t even know all of it, but there was a lot going on. He’d been doing fine, too, before that. It came out of nowhere. He could have sold the guns, maybe kept himself afloat until after the stocks recovered, but...Now, I still don’t really understand why my father would have hidden the guns in such a way, but he must have done it, and I think I know what he was feeling. 

_Neil is now visibly crying. His face is red and puffy._

CHASE: This may make me sound insensitive, but...this reminds me of Hedda Gabler.

NEIL: I don’t follow.

CHASE: She felt burdened by her marriage; it was different from your uncle’s problems, really. Regardless, she killed herself with her father’s pistols. 

NEIL: That’s morbid.

CHASE: She thought it was the only way to take back her autonomy.

NEIL: I suppose she succeeded, in a way. Not a great message to readers, though.

CHASE: If you ask me it’s not about what she did so much as why she did it. Closure can be found in other ways. _[He makes a sweeping gesture, indicating the entire space around them.]_ Like letting go, whether it be your inhibitions, your life, or your inheritance.

_A doorbell chimes. Neil springs to his feet, panicking. Chase puts out a hand to still him._

CHASE: Go to the bathroom. Clean up. Take all the time you need. I’ll begin.

NEIL: _[Reluctantly]_ Are you sure?

_Chase gives him an inarticulable look. It’s just a Look™. Anyone who has been subjected to such a look knows exactly how it makes one feel. Neil exits through the third door, and Chase approaches the first door._

* * *

SCENE II

_The same room. Two young women, twin sisters, are seated on a long end of the table, and Chase at the head. An array of papers are spread out in front of the group, who are discussing the impending sale of the estate in depth (ad-lib). Neil sits across from the women, and is mostly silent. He watches Chase speak. All evidence of his recent crying is gone, although he appears pensive. Outside, the snow has stopped, and has turned to a slushy rain._

CHASE: So you’re going to turn the place into a...museum?

SISTER 1: Yes. A historical museum, for educational purposes. 

SISTER 2: The building that is currently being used as the museum will be cleared out and converted into a community center. 

CHASE: I like that. I like it very much. It seems like you two have a concrete plan, and a very selfless one at that. 

SISTER 1: Thank you. 

NEIL: My uncle would have hated it. 

_Everyone looks at him, confused._

NEIL: He used to live here. Stock tycoon, pretentious, all-around not a great guy. He’s dead now. _[Neil sounds sad, but also slightly unbothered.]_

SISTER 2: I - uh - that’s unfortunate. 

NEIL: Indeed it is. I’m glad this place is going towards something a little less selfish. Well, a _lot_ less selfish. 

CHASE: Absolutely. Besides, it’s not what your uncle would have wanted that matters. It’s what you _do_ want.

NEIL: What I want is for this estate to take on a new life. 

SISTER 1: Your home will be in good hands.

NEIL: It’s not my home. Like Sophocles said, in _Antigone_ \- ‘I have been a stranger here in my own land: All my life’. I have lived here, but it has not been my home. I do trust, though, that this place has been in good hands - _[He casts a glance at Chase]_ \- and will be in good hands in the future. _[At this, he looks directly at the two sisters.]_

_Chase begins to gather up papers, returning them to the open briefcase. Neil stands, and shakes hands with each sister. Chase does the same, and the stage darkens as the two sisters head to the front door._

* * *

## ACT II

SCENE I

_A small flat. This room is a compact but open space, split evenly between a cozy living room with a couch, CD player, a number of filled bookshelves, etc., and a desk by a window, which overlooks the city. Outside, the snow and rain have cleared up, leaving a hazy but calm sky. Across from the desk is a closed door. The desk is well-organized, and nestled under it is a safe, the door of which is ajar. An open wooden case, inside which are two ornate revolvers, rests on the desk, and Chase and Neil stand in front of it. Chase is now wearing the same hoodie Neil was wearing in Act I Scene I._

CHASE: What are you going to do with them?

NEIL: You should decide. 

CHASE: Why? You had that choice taken away from you before, by your father. 

NEIL: I have the choice now, and my choice is that you should decide. I worry that my father’s wishes could influence me. I’d never thought my uncle could be like that, before he did it, and I never thought my father could be like he is, until now.

CHASE: They could go to the museum. I looked at the list of assets the sisters decided to keep, and what they already have in their collection. These are enough of a historical artifact to fit in with the rest. _[He pauses.]_ Somehow that doesn’t feel right, though. 

NEIL: Sell them, maybe?

CHASE: I don’t need the money. God knows _you_ don’t, either. 

NEIL: I don’t want these around, though. Not even if you hide them in the safe. _Especially_ not if you hide them in the safe. They should be gone. Permanently.

CHASE: Well. I suppose I could - hm - I don’t know. _[He looks abashed.]_

NEIL: What? 

CHASE: If they won’t be remembered, if they’re just going to collect dust, I could turn them into something else. Disassemble them, melt the metal bits down, and have them cast into something useful. 

NEIL: _[Wincing]_ Somewhere, a collector is sobbing. 

CHASE: Hm. Maybe I _will_ sell them, then. To a collector. I can take the money and make an...anonymous donation to the museum. Or! No! The _community center._

NEIL: Full circle, I suppose. 

CHASE: Are you alright with that plan?

_Neil moves towards the desk, and takes one last long look at the guns. He closes the case they came in and hands it to Chase._

NEIL: More than alright. This is one grey hair that deserves to be plucked out. 

CHASE: Then consider it done. 

NEIL: And - my living arrangements. Are you absolutely _sure_ I shouldn’t -

CHASE: Neil! _Cornelius!_ We’ve been over this a hundred times! Of course you can stay here. You’ve basically been living in my flat since I gave you the spare key. You needed a place to stay while clearing out the mansion, and it was convenient for our efficient communication, and...I’ve found that you certainly aren’t the worst company.

NEIL: So - 

CHASE: As long as you keep paying your share of the rent.

NEIL: That certainly won’t be a problem.

_Chase begins to walk towards the door, holding the case carefully in both hands._

CHASE: Oh, and if you’re going to steal my clothes, have better taste next time. 

_He exits, leaving Neil to stare at the closed door. The stage begins to darken, but after a moment, a spotlight centers on the door, and another on Neil. The door opens again, revealing Chase standing in the threshold as if he has forgotten something._

CHASE: One more thing. When I asked you for a dance, you told me to remind you later. 

NEIL: Well, that’s one way to make sure I’ll still be here when you get back.

CHASE: Is that a yes?

_Neil smiles. The stage goes dark, for real this time._


	2. Chapter 2

“You will include with your play a (full) one-page (at least) discussion of the elements, ideas, topics and/or theme(s) you’ve chosen to include in your play.”

I am choosing to take  _ discussion _ literally, because a) I am fresh out of however many braincells it would take to write something coherent and academic™ without sounding boring and dry and altogether very uninteresting, and b) it’s more fun this way. Here’s a (insert jazz hands) comprehensive breakdown of all the subtext in my funky little short play with a funky little not-so-short title. 

My ideal writing process involves a carefully curated mix of plotting and what some writers like to call pantsing - flying by the seat of your pants when you write. However, much like ideal gases only exist conceptually to make the lives of physicists slightly easier, the ideal writing process is also usually far from reality. It’s just a reference point by which I can gauge how sleep-deprived, on average, I am while writing any given piece. This doesn’t make my life  _ easier _ , per se, but it’s satisfying. With that being said, while I am typically a fan of jamming a bunch of miscellaneous concepts, objects, ideas, and other vague themes into a mental blender and shaking it until something coherent falls out, I usually either use a) a very specific prompt, or b) no prompt at all. Incorporating such a long and specific list of objects (the 8 things we had to choose), ideas (the 4 highlighted things), and more (self-explanatory) into the bare bones of a work is something I’m not used to, and something I consider to be a fun, albeit slightly stressful, challenge. It also effectively freed me from plotting, because in writing everything out on my own copy of the checklist and trying to string things together in my mind, I came up with the formula of vaguely connected noun-and-noun-adjacent things that is usually the kind of thing I start a writing piece with. So, pre-writing process, but I wound up more or less in the same place I usually am by the time I’d finished the first paragraph.

There were some items on the list I wanted to include (namely heroic couplets and gothic description) which ultimately fell through the cracks as the play evolved, but I just replaced them with doors, because there were already doors, I swear, there are always doors in every play, someone could write an essay about the symbolic meaning of doors in theater and how they - 

Anyways! My _point_ , doors aside, is that I shifted things around a bit as I wrote, and this informed the themes I was creating. The image I had in mind when I began to write was the stage descriptions for Act I, Scene I, which connect a number of the listed items I had to incorporate in this piece, and also left me with questions. _Hey, I don’t feel like describing whatever the hell normally goes in a ballroom, so we’ll make it empty except for a table - but why is it like that? Maybe it’s cleared out because it’s being sold…_ _but why is it being sold?_ And so on.

If I tried to describe my writing process in any more detail, this would become an incoherent mess slightly resembling a Joyce short story and the falling action of  _ Flowers for Algernon _ , but I hope that gets the point across. Writing this piece did for me what many of my pieces do, taking a bunch of things that aren’t necessarily connected at first glance and drawing lines between them to see where it’ll take my mind. Themes evolved as this happened. The images I first conjured up in my mind reading the assignment checklist informed the mood. Miscellaneous thoughts and real-life occurrences, like an unmatching hoodie and snow in May, became foreshadowing and enriching detail. Thinking of characters and poems to include, the topics of loss and letting go came to the forefront of my mind, especially with respect to  _ Antigone _ \- Oedipus’ entire life comes undone, and so does his death, and then the lives and deaths of his children/siblings. The two pistols became homage to Hedda Gabler, but also - along with the metaphor of a grey hair, which I combined with a nod to my own experiences with trichotillomania - two men’s way of making their losses tangible. With the pistols, Neil in particular packs up his losses and lets them go, so they will no longer lurk in the dark corners of his life and cause him distress. In these times, when the loss we are all experiencing is often intangible and, indeed, in _ visible _ , it is important to remember that many things can be let go of, although not always in the first or most obvious ways we might think of. This play is also, in a way, about thinking things are over and then realizing they aren’t, as I have done on many occasions both fortunate and unfortunate. Snow in May. Rediscovering a possibly cursed family heirloom right before you sell your house. Having your friend/colleague/definitely-not-romantic-interest ask for a dance you thought he’d forgotten about. Frankly, I don’t feel like defining a concrete theme like I would when analyzing something I’ve read, because I want it to be interpreted ambiguously. However, I think that itself counts as somewhat of a theme, because there’s definitely a strong element of ambiguity and inarticulability when it comes to the question of What Is Going On? Life doesn’t fit itself into neat little boxes, now seemingly more than ever, and no story is ever just about one thing. There are always different interpretations, metaphors,  _ things _ . This is a weird piece, to reflect the fact that everything in this world is and has always been weird, but it’s especially noticeable right now.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceofcorvids)
> 
> also, for the record, it actually snowed in may here, just a couple of weeks ago. this is new england. that's not supposed to happen.


End file.
